


And we'll fly, and we'll fall, and we'll burn

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Demon Sex, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e02 Reichenbach, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Restraints, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can strip me down to bones and guts and blood, Sam, but you won't find anything new in here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And we'll fly, and we'll fall, and we'll burn

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Stockholm Syndrome' by Muse. Cheerleaded upon and beta-read by the truly amazing nu_breed <3

The thing is, Sam knows exactly what Dean means about mercy. There've been times when he's had someone or something at the end of his knife or in his sights or tied down the way he wants them, and he's had to think, now what?

Kill them? Sometimes that's the job. But sometimes it's a waste of leverage, information, bargaining. Sometimes it's a waste of ammunition. And sometimes all Sam could think was _why should you get a clean death, you son of a bitch?_

That's when it's really hard to pull a trigger. Not because you feel sorry for them but because you feel sorry for you, because you don't wanna give a gift to someone else that you've had snatched away from yourself. 

Sam knows he's a bad person, and he knows that because his demon brother is sitting in the back seat and reminiscing proudly about how letting a man live was no kind of mercy, and Sam _understands._

'What I'm gonna do to you, Sammy? Well, that ain't gonna be mercy,' says Dean from the back seat and it's a promise. 

Sam shivers. 

Sam hopes. 

***

The devil's trap in the dungeon has a diameter of five metres. The chair with the chains is in the centre, all the masonry anchors carefully placed so they don't interrupt the lines of paint. Sam knows this because he checked it all real careful when they first moved into the bunker and found the little lockup in the archives. He checked it again before and after Crowley's stint down here. He checked it again one last time before he went out after Dean, and he put a table down here with the other things he's gonna need, too.

'What gets me,' says Dean conversationally as Sam locks down the final manacle around his ankle, trying to ignore the fact that he's basically kneeling between Dean's wide-open legs, 'is that you're so hung up on doing the right thing, and you're so broken-down over how no-one ever lets you make your own choices, and here I am, 100% legit demon, killed more people the last few weeks than you've had hot dinners in that same stretch of time, of my own free will … Sammy, baby bro, you gotta see that the right thing here is to knife me? I'm at your mercy, kiddo, all you gotta do is cut a little hole and I'm gone, but you won't do it.'

'Shut up,' Sam growls, standing up and pushing himself away to get his tools, awkward without the use of his left hand. 'I know how to cure demons now, there's no need for me to kill you.'

'See, that's the flipside of it. You're taking my choices away. I _like_ this, Sam.' Dean stretches against the chains, shrugging openly as much as he can within their span. Sam turns away. 'Being a demon, it's freedom. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, y'know? Unless I want it to.' His eyes narrow. 'Should never've put your soul back. Think how much fun we coulda had, Sammy.'

'Soulless me woulda stuck you in the eye the second you were in my reach,' Sam points out, clenching and unclenching his good fist to try and find a decent vein. 'That your kinda fun now?'

'Could be,' Dean says, a smirk in his voice. 'I'm a lot more open-minded than I used to be. Lot more honest, too. You're looking at this all wrong, Sam. This is the new, improved Dean Winchester. 100% less angst, 100% less bullshit. We could finally go see the Grand Canyon.' His voice drops even lower, as Sam's sliding the needle home. 'We could do a lot of things we always wanted to.'

Sam pulls the syringe free, full of blood, and he should turn around and start the ritual but his hands are shaking. He hasn't got long before this shot of blood goes thick and useless, but he can't - he can't face Dean right now. He needs a second.

'You know what I'm saying, Sam?' Dean's asking. 'All those nights laying awake? All those naughty little thoughts you had? Why'd you think I always left the curtains open, huh Sammy? Why'd you think I always made you do your homework in the car, and then parked her right outside?'

Sam slams the syringe down on the metal top of the table. He can't breathe. 

'Always wanted to eat you alive,' Dean's saying. Sam walks out. 

***

He knows as soon as he leaves that it was a mistake, and he turns right around, but it's too late.

Sam wishes he could be surprised by the empty chair, the hairline scratch through the paint of the devil's trap. But there's no time for kicking himself. Dean could be anywhere. Dean could have left already - demons move fast. Crazy fast. Sam wonders how many tricks of the trade Dean's had time to learn already. Can he do the disappearing trick? Can he smoke out?

He's passing the door to Dean's bedroom when there are footsteps behind him. He spins on his heel to take the blow that's coming across his forearm - except that forearm is strapped to his body and his balance falters, and before he can react he's slammed through the open door onto the bed, arching hard against the mattress but utterly unable to move, pinned at the shoulders and the thighs. 

Dean stands in the doorway and lifts up a foot to show Sam the nail-head sticking out of the sole of his boot, the nail-head with a scrape of paint on it. 'Your trick,' he says. 'Remember? Easier to pick a lock with a nail than get arrested for carrying lockpicks. Look at you, still gettin' me outta tight spots.'

Sam's still wrestling the force that's holding him to the bed. 'I see you've got some new tricks too, though,' he says through gritted teeth. It always took it out of him the few times he tried it, holding someone down with his power, but Dean isn't even breaking a sweat.

'What can I say, I use the tools I've got,' Dean says, kneeing his way onto the bed and leaning down into Sam's space. 'Known for it,' he adds, and slides his hand down Sam's chest to his waistband, curves his fingers around Sam's hip, the tips scraping under the denim and making little sparks chase over nerve endings - and pulls out Ruby's knife.

The blade is wickedly sharp, Sam makes sure of it. The fact that it doesn't cut him as Dean pulls it free isn't accident, it's deliberate, it's a sweet stinging silver line Dean's drawing, a point he's making. Everything that happens from this moment on is because Dean wants it to happen. 

'Now,' says Dean toying with the knife. 'I know you're telling yourself right now that this isn't Dean, isn't your brother, but you're wrong.'

'That's semantics,' Sam growls. 'You're a demon.'

'Still your brother. Little bent, little twisted, little broken, but when the fuck wasn't I? Nothing here now that wasn't here before.' He cuts the buttons on Sam's shirt away, snicking the threads delicately. Then he unbuckles the sling and pulls it off gently. Even with the movements soft, kind, Sam's shoulder throbs. 'You can strip me down to bones and guts and blood, Sam, but you won't find anything new in here,' Dean says. 'This is me, all me.'

He slides the knife through the seams on the shirt, taking it apart methodically and with so much precision it makes Sam shiver - it's for show, he knows it's for show, it's Dean's way of saying he knows how the pieces of things fit perfectly enough that he knows exactly how to break them. Sam's been worked over before, but no-one's ever got him to the fear this fast before. 

'Attaboy,' Dean croons, as Sam's shirt falls away. 'Look at you, baby brother. You're ready for just about anything, aren't you. Ready for me to cut on you, break you - running through in that big smart head of yours how you're not gonna give anything away. Maybe thinking how you're gonna turn the tables, huh?'

Sam's breathing too hard, and no, he's not thinking that. He's thinking about how he's here in _Dean's bedroom_ , the way Dean used to smile over having a bedroom at all, the way it takes Sam hours to fall asleep when he can't hear Dean's breathing, the way he wanted every night for months to come in here and lie down and sleep how they used to sleep when they were little, back to back. He's not thinking about getting away from this. He should be, but - god forgive him - he isn't. 

Dean starts in on Sam's jeans. Another tiny slice, and the button at the top of the fly falls away. Dean hooks the thistle-sharp tip of the knife in the tab on the zipper, and pulls it down. Sam's intensely aware of the throb of his femoral artery just inches away from that sharp edge, but Dean doesn't do anything about it, just slits the jeans from waist to cuff and pushes them off, so Sam's lying in the ruins of his clothes and not a mark to show for how close Dean's been cutting to him. 

Dean puts the knife down on the bedside table and curves his hand around Sam's dick, hard in his underwear, and Sam damn near bites through his lip. 

Meg was right. The best torturers never have to get their hands dirty. 

'So here's what I'm thinking, Sam,' says Dean, idly stroking at him. 'I'm thinking it's been a damn long time since anyone but you had a hand down here, huh?' 

It's the truth.

'I'm thinking, maybe a long time since even you did. But you've been busy, I get it. Suits me, anyway, because what all this thinking's led me to consider is, you're gonna be tight. Virgin-tight, like you never took a dick before. And I'm thinking that it'd be a terrible shame if I didn't do something about that.'

Dean's rocking gently against Sam's body, his own dick hard in his jeans against Sam's thigh. Sam's aching, hard between his legs and tight in his chest, half _yes, fuck, please_ and half _no, shit, no_. He's completely unable to move as Dean picks up the knife again and starts to slowly, slowly cut Sam's briefs off. 

This time he pushes harder. Sam can _feel_ the edge of the blade. Not cutting flesh, just cutting cloth, but the two are stuck tight to each other with the way Sam's leaking and it's surgery-delicate, the way Dean does it. Sam's body shudders. A curl of hair falls away, sliced clean, when Dean pulls the ruined underwear off. 'Careful, Sammy,' Dean tuts.

The knife goes back again, back within both of their reach but only Dean's grasp, because Sam's still held down - Dean's knees and hands and Dean's power too, feels like the weight of the world on him. 

But Dean's being gentle still for all that, and Sam twists as much as he's able, looks up at his brother. 'If you're trying to convince me you're a demon, that there's nothing left of the old Dean to save, this isn't exactly the way to do it,' Sam points out. Dean's hands are tracing patterns over his skin, massaging at his sore shoulder, unknotting knots and soothing itches. 'You trying to romance me or something?'

Dean's eyes flick black and he smiles. 'Oh, you think this is romance, huh? What, Sammy? You want this rough? Want me to shove you down and take you hard? Cos I could, and you know it - but where's the fun in that? I'm not exactly in the business right now of giving you what you want.'

He keeps his eyes black, keeps them black and keeps them open and pushes three of his fingers in Sam's mouth. 'That's it,' he says. 'And you're gonna be a good boy and take them, aren't you, because you _could_ bite me, but that's a road I don't think you want to go down. Am I right?'

Sam sucks, spits, gets Dean's fingers as wet as he can, and doesn't think about the other thing. 

Dean's undoing his own jeans one-handed, kneeling up over Sam's body. Sam watches Dean's fingers at his fly, watches him push the denim down and isn't surprised that he's going commando. Dean's cock is hard and drooling, and Sam can't help the flood of saliva in his mouth. 

'Like the look of it, do ya?' Dean lifts one knee then the other to kick the jeans off entirely, shrugs his shirts off too, pulls his tee over his head, and he's naked, strong, ready to fuck. Sam manages to pull his mouth free. 

'Let's just get this over with,' he says, thinking of the shot of blood downstairs, realising he has no idea how long it takes for raw wet blood to coagulate. He'll have to draw another one, a fresh syringe, he'll have to somehow wrestle Dean down there and start this all over again, and that this is gonna be hard, no matter how it goes down, no matter what happens. 

Dean's sloppy, spit-wet fingers catch Sam around his throat though, up under his jaw. 'But I wanna take my time with you,' he says, his voice cold. 'We got years to catch up on, remember? Years we coulda been doing this. You shot up at, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Ever wonder why I stopped wanting to wrestle you so much?'

'Kept beating you,' Sam chokes out. Dean's other hand, the dry hand, the one Sam hasn't been working on, is creeping down over the inside of his thigh. 

'Hard to fight with a raging boner,' Dean says, easing the pad of a finger against Sam's ass. 'Wanted you, Sam. However you wanna colour it, that sin's been in me long before this. And you wanted me too.'

'We're _brothers_ ,' Sam cries, as Dean pushes that finger a tiny bit in, too dry to go far without cooperation and Sam isn't cooperating, not like that. 'We - we got fucked up, we got wires crossed or something, jeez, I don't know, I just - we're not supposed to - '

Dean's fumbling in the bedside drawer with something and then his fingers come back slippery, two at once and Sam hasn't even had one all the way in yet. Dean just rocks them in and out with tiny pushes, not even up to the first knuckle. 'Now you're getting it,' Dean says to him. 'We're not supposed to. But we do. We always did. I know you know it. So tell me Sam, how is this not me?'

The tightness of power holding Sam is lessening, at least around his legs. He doesn't even notice it until he realises he can really spread his legs now, his thighs wide and Dean settled between them like he belongs there. Dean's got two fingers in him right up to the joint with his palm, it feels like. It hurts, until Dean curls and brushes Sam's prostate, and then the bruising pain of the stretch is nothing compared to the shocky desire. 

'Dean, please,' Sam pants. He can move his legs but he's still immobile at the shoulders, pinned. Pinned like a butterfly, and Dean's the cold sharp steel that holds him down. 'I need -'

'I know what you need,' Dean murmurs. A third finger's pressed to the first two, pushed in. It's wide and hot and Sam has to plant the soles of his feet to the mattress and brace against it. 'Your big brother always knows.' 

Four fingers and Sam's sobbing, the weakened fingers of his bad arm scrabbling at his own collarbone just to have some purchase, something he can control, and yet more of Dean's power has ebbed, so Sam's got movement enough that he can surge up against the full width of Dean's palm, bunched round and wide. 'Gonna put my dick in you now,' Dean says. 'Just like you always wanted. And you're gonna take it, Sam, and you're gonna think hard about _choices.'_

Dean slicks his cock and kneels down, pushes himself in. Sam's knees come up, hitch around Dean's waist without even a thought, and Dean smiles with his black eyes and kisses Sam's slack, gasping mouth. 'Sammy, Sammy, how long has it been?' Dean asks. 'You're so damn tight.' 

Sam writhes, tries to push up harder against the pain to get the sweetness he knows is buried in there somewhere. 'Forever,' he says. He wants to clutch at Dean's shoulders. 'It's been - I mean, I haven't.' 

The second he says it he sees the way Dean's expression lights up and he knows he shouldn't have, stupid, stupid and weak because _this isn't his brother_ , and that kinda knowledge, that's leverage, that's power, and Sam just handed it right to the enemy. 

He expects - he doesn't know what he expects, actually, but it isn't Dean cradling his face, kissing him like a lover, and slowing down the jolting of his hips into something smoother, deeper. 

Sam can't help the way the kiss makes him moan, Dean coaxing it out of him with tongue and teeth, but he wrenches his head to the side as soon as his brain comes back online. 'Fuck you,' he spits. 'Just fucking fuck me, if you're going to fuck me.'

'Ssssh, baby brother, let me take care of you,' says Dean, but there's a sick little twist of humour in his voice that Sam can't swallow. He strains against his bonds again and Dean laughs. 'Not buying it, huh? Okay then. I'm not the rose petal type either.' And he shoves forward violently, shocking Sam into curling up into it, and oh, oh fuck, he's right on target there, nailing Sam's prostate over and over. Sam's good arm finds Dean's shoulder and claws at him, trying to get him deeper, harder, and Dean laughs like he's crazy, laughs like he's _happy_ and buries his teeth in Sam's throat. 

Sam comes like a freight train hitting a downed bridge - full speed and doomed. He clenches everything, every muscle. His shoulder screams a protest but it's nothing compared to the noises he's making, tortured breaths escaping from him in deep grunts, he's trying to bite his lips to keep himself quiet but he can't, cock jerking and spending between his belly and Dean's, and Dean's sucking and biting at the curve of Sam's larynx like he's starving. 'Hell yeah, Sammy,' he's growling. 'You ride it out, you fucking ride it out, ride my dick.'

Sam realises his arms are free about the time that Dean pulls out, leans up, and jerks it all over his face. There's no warning, not anything except a savage, possessive smile followed by a thumb dragging through the wet come on Sam's cheek. Dean feeds it into his mouth, rubbing it over his lips, down his throat to the sore, bruised place he was gnawing on. 

'Dean,' says Sam, weaker than he'd like, stunned, panting. 

'Looking good, Sam.' Dean snaps one of the engraved handcuffs around Sam's wrist and yanks his bad arm up to the headboard, loops it through, and catches the other wrist before Sam can do a damn thing. 'But now you've got what you wanted, we're done.'

'This isn't what I -' Sam rasps, struggling to sit up and feeling his shoulder protest, feeling damaged muscles tear even further. 'Dean -'

'Isn't it?' Dean asks. He pats Sam's cheek again, wipes his hand off on Sam's thigh. 'You had your chance to get one over on me. Had a dozen chances. Coulda had me back down that cute little dungeon any time you liked, if you'd just taken a bite. Or if you'd been paying attention - I let you free way before you even tried to move. Never figured you for someone who thinks with his dick, but I guess I was wrong, huh?'

He gets off the bed and starts picking his clothes up and putting them on. Sam's naked, covered in come that's starting to dry, and his entire back is in agony as he tries frantically to work himself free. Dean is gonna leave him here, go to ground, and Sam's never gonna get this close to him again. That syringe full of blood's a wasted hope.

'Still think I got mercy in me?' Dean asks softly, just before he disappears.


End file.
